


if there is a sinner, let him speak.

by HARDCOREPROCESS



Series: the Father, the Son, and the (un)Holy Ghost [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Game, Catholicism, Christianity, Church Sex, Confessional Sex, Corruption, Demon/Human Relationships, Demons, Don't do crimes unless you're gay., Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Male Lactation, Mind Manipulation, Priest Kink, Religion, Religion Kink, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Size Difference, The Caliborn/Dirk is very minimal. Literally background., Transformation, Vandalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-07 02:47:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20302186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HARDCOREPROCESS/pseuds/HARDCOREPROCESS
Summary: The general rule of thumb says that it's best to avoid churches with no apparent owners, but caution is best left to people with smaller fish to fry. It's a reasonable enough accommodation when a man's on the run from vandalism charges.





	if there is a sinner, let him speak.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Shame_Basement](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Shame_Basement/gifts).

> For prompts 3 and 4. You can find them at the end because they were a little unwieldy to put right before everything I wrote. Be mindful of the tags, and thank you for contributing to Drone Season, Moderator Bean.

He’s spent the last ten minutes wringing what moisture he can out of his shirt. At this point, his jeans are a lost cause between the mud and the tear up one thigh from trying to hop wire earlier. This downpour, while inconvenient as all hell, definitely did the trick in letting Dirk skirt around the unexpected police presence patrolling his favorite post-vandalism haunt. 

Glancing up at the creaking overhang he’s ducked beneath, thankfully dry despite getting on in decades, he gets lost in the way water cascades off the hand-hewn shingles. That’s raw craftsmanship, something even a proclaimed punkass can appreciate when nobody’s looking too hard. But there’s an annoying squish in his sneakers and the chafe of his soaked underwear to contend with now; it’s as good a time as any to head inside.

Under his hand, the double doors creak open with very little resistance. It’s a nice enough church, if he has any eye for religious structures, if rundown and abandoned. Or… not. There are candles lit just inside, low light illuminating his face once he’s nudged one shoulder in. Reflections of that flickering echo off a wide bowl full of water just before the entrance to the church proper. Must be Catholic, or some bastardization thereof.

Dirk’s never really been the type to observe organized faith, much less one as huge as Catholicism, but maybe it’s the raw power of religion soaking into everyday awareness that prompts his respectful step over the threshold. Belief abiding or not, it never hurts to be cool in places where people seek their existential answers. Hell, he’s attended enough Día de Muertos celebrations with Roxy to know the power of tradition.

The doors don’t close hard behind him. Instead, with the same creak they emitted when he pushed them open, they close almost gently. He leaves that be, in favor of pushing one hand through his hair to slick back his unstyled bangs. Shades, now tucked into the collar of his T-shirt, nudge at his jaw when he turns his head to look at dusty old curtains draping over sculptures of the Mother Mary in disrepair. “Say what you will about Christianity, but they really do have the lockdown on aesthetic,” he murmurs. His voice doesn’t carry, deadened in heavy air.

Pausing at the dish of water, he idly dips his fingers into it, then flicks them dry. He’s relatively sure there’s a whole process to this part, but this is the breadth of his knowledge on the subject. God can’t say he didn’t try at this point. But his fingers come away grimy, almost oily, which prompts him to wipe off on his ruined jeans. No good deed goes unpunished, apparently.

The actual church proper is in even better shape than the entrance, with pews only mildly scuffed but clearly maintained and a nearly full array of candles to the side. Dirk isn’t sure how so many people could have come through this way recently enough for at least twenty to be lit, but hey. Maybe one dude got really overzealous and bailed out before the rain came down. Damn near Noah’s Arc revisited out there, so he can’t blame this theoretical person for making good on leaving before the clouds convened.

It’s about here that he realizes he’s not alone.

Patiently standing maybe halfway down the central walkway, leading directly to the altar and whatever they call that thing people stand at to talk about brimstone, is honestly the hottest man he’s ever fucking seen. Dirk can honestly say he’s fucked a few studs in his time, ranging from the sexist mob-kid to that weird sweat-prone study buddy he had in college, but this guy? Wow. Jesus was working mad overtime when he crafted _ that _from clay.

Stands to fucking reason that he’s wrapped up in a cassock, broad purple scarf-belt thing hanging in a pristine waterfall of silk, white collar tucked under his impossibly strong jaw. Lord, is he built. Dirk’s chest goes tighter with a sharp inhale when the priest begins approaching, steady pace lessening the distance between them until they’re barely three feet apart.

“How can I help you, my son?”

It’s a cliche, but not. The words fall under the typical greeting he’d expect from some devout professor of faith, hidden away in a chintzy chapel during a summer shower, but the tone is wrong. The priest speaks with a rough accent, something sea-worthy, that cuts its way past his scarred lips. There’s a divot in his skin, two. One bisects his mouth and travels vertically into his hairline, while the other cuts across his face halfway, beginning at one cheek and ending just after deforming his aquiline nose.

Dirk realizes he’s been staring, absolutely mute, two seconds after the priest takes another step. Their comfortable distance from one another shrinks, dramatically, forcing him to tip his jaw back to look _ up _ at this guy. “Uh,” he says, intelligently. His tongue’s tied, unsticking from the roof of his mouth when a hand lifts to press to his forehead. He swallows, thick, under the crippling heat. Somehow, it feels like he’s—

“My son?”

—been here before. Idly, his tongue presses to his slightly sharper-than-average canine. It’s always been that way, a nervous tic he adopted… at some point. He can’t really put a moment to it. The priest is too close.

“It’s raining,” Dirk finally manages, voice lame. He feels like it’s not a good enough reason to be here. He didn’t have to come this far into the church, but the palm on his forehead is soothingly gentle, sweeping spare strands of hair back. “I came in to get dry. I was…” He laughs, embittered, confessing, “I was vandalizing and nearly got got, bro.”

Despite the sheer audacity of calling a holy man _ bro _, no retribution comes. Instead, Dirk’s guided towards the first row of pews and sat down. His toes wiggle in damp sneakers, a motion meant to calm his nerves. His backpack, a trove of spray paint and breathing gear, is pulled from his weather-numb fingers to be placed in the bench just ahead of them. “Be at ease,” he says, palms clasping one of Dirk’s sinful hands between them. It’s warm, God, it’s so warm in here.

He’s on _ fire_.

“You may call me Father Ampora.”

“Father Ampora.” He knows this name, familiar like the taste of mineral water and orange juice on his tongue. His bare hand lifts, palm pressing to the priest’s chest among the thick hair there to feel his heart beat. Steady, steady, a war drum. His thighs slide apart, eyes flicking shut. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” He has strayed away, turned from _ God_, turned from _ him_.

“Be at ease.”

He is.

“Be at peace.”

He is.

“Be at rest.”

He is. 

“Be a welcome hole for my cock.”

He is.

* * *

When Dirk opens his eyes, it’s to the gleam of midday light pouring through windows taller than him. His eyes ache, like he’s been asleep for hours, and the whimsical gold of the air mists from his mouth. He’s in the foremost pew, back straight as a line without a hint of his customary cool-guy slouch, in a button-down. It’s a deep violet, almost red. He’s been dressed.

This isn’t concerning. Far away, a voice says he should be concerned about that, about the dry shoes on his feet, about his eyes being bare as he looks up to the pulpit. Father Ampora is there, the voice says, and he agrees. That is Father Ampora, in his cassock and collar, preaching to the congregation about the cardinal sins. Dirk knows what they are, the vices of man that can only be erased by the final baptism in fire, at the will of the divine.

He is guilty of a cardinal sin, one in particular that makes his eyes lick over Father Ampora’s chest and scarred hands. When the sermon comes to a close, Dirk rises to perform his expected duties before he retires to the confessional. Devout, loyal, his head heavy with the wrongdoings he’s hoped to commit. But he’s made a mistake, gotten into the wrong side, because Father Ampora steps into the confessional _ with _ him.

Dirk is grateful, so grateful, to the priest that gathers him up. His back presses to the side of the confessional booth, his body bent in half by the hands pinning his knees to his shoulders. A dick nearly the length and girth of his forearm lays heavy atop the seam of his pitiful balls, not quite human in shape. Father Ampora takes up the entire booth, his shoulders broad and his thighs tensed in a crouch.

It makes sense. His wings already take up so much room and there isn’t much left over.

“From your lips, the blessed sacrament I take—” out of a shattered throat, each word a nail in the sweet flesh of his regrettably mortal body. His eyes are wide, unseeing, black pools surrounded by a thin band of amber. The mouth above, holy and divine and peeling open at the seam to reveal teeth he can’t fathom, speaks the _ truth _ and the once-sinner shakes around the cock buried so deeply in his ass that he can nearly taste holy water in the back of his mouth.

Dirk gurgles as Father Ampora fucks him with enough force to snap his spine. Every stroke is divine, cleansing, _ be at ease now, boy. _ His fingers scrabble uselessly against scales and fins and then he gains purchase. Claws bury in his priest, his tail whipping restless. Holy, beloved, lips searing into his forehead. _ Be at ease now, boy. _ Dirk obeys, he submits, his claws slip away and he takes the cock he’s gifted with until his eyes roll back.

His hips fucking hurt. Groggily, he pushes himself into a sitting position, promptly slipping off the rotten old pew and hitting the floor below. He groans. After a moment of feeling damn sorry for himself, Dirk shoves onto his knees, gripping the clawed-up back of the nearest piece of furniture to haul himself onto his feet again. His sneakers are fucking soaked, his mouth tastes vaguely of fucking mildew, and his backpack is spilling spray paint cans fucking everywhere.

Leave it to him to find the nearest church and pass out in it directly after committing several felonies. Jane’s going to get such a kick out of it, if she ever finds out. And she will. Bitch.

Humiliated, aching, and glaring out the broken frame of a stained glass window at the chill of, by his estimate, a 3AM wind. Dirk shoves what he can reach into his back and storms out of the church with his hands shoved into his dirty pockets. The door shuts firmly behind him, ushering him clear of the holy place as firmly as if he’d been escorted by an insanely hot priest. Bitterly, he buckles down for a fucking awful walk home in the middle of the night.

He steps out from under the overhang, into a cloudless night under a full moon, and his tongue presses to his sharper-than-average canine. His tailbone aches, from contact with the floor. His shoulder blades twinge, probably from being pressed to the pew all night long. Dirk scratches at his throat, still vaguely damp, and files away a mental note to clip his fingernails once home.

* * *

It only takes a week for him to get back on the street, after his fuck-awful cold and the burn of a weirdly horny streak that had him calling Caliborn for the first time in months to bang six out in some insane bunny rut. Guy may be a patronizing douchebag with daddy issues, much like Dirk himself, but his refractory period is also nil and he’s as desperate for Dirk’s choice ass as any other motherfucker that’s had a taste of it.

That and he won’t run around telling anyone how Dirk begged for a creampie until he cried because he’s a repressed crimelord’s kid. Ideal.

But speaking of crimelords. He leans back from his latest masterpiece with no small amount of pride, pushed up onto his toes so the makeshift hammock he’s constructed to stay suspended a good ten feet from the ground doesn’t swing him facefirst into the side of this building. The aggressively nude angel is looking fine as hell, if he does say so himself, with scars crisscrossing his cupped hands.

He’s still debating on what sort of liberal agenda to blaze across those gorgeous pecs when a telltale siren chirp and “Freeze!” spurs him into climbing the fuck out of dodge. It’s times like these that he’s grateful for whatever number of insane acrobatic courses his brother put him through on top of parkour lessons, fingers hooking over the side of a fire escape to hurtle him onto slightly unsteady ground. From there, it’s up and out, to skim across rooftops until he has enough distance to touch down on Mother Earth again.

Because life isn’t fucking fair, he manages to rip open his spare jeans on the way down, riding a rusty ladder to a three foot drop onto asphalt and landing heavily on his ass. The tear is visceral, his hips hurt like blazes, and there’s no time to waste with the cops tooling dangerously close to the alley he touched down in. Dirk tightens the straps of his backpack and hauls rear end, ducking and weaving through the concrete jungle until he’s hopping a half-pulled chain link fence into— some kind of abandoned lot, a familiar one.

Oh, cool. The church.

Dirk bursts through the doors, but they don’t creak shut when he turns to shove them closed, praying to whoever might be listening that nobody saw him enter from the outside. His nose burns with incense after-taste, prompting the slow turn of his head. The candles are lit around the basin. He’s seen this before, probably in a film or an obscure web dive. When he draws close, unbidden, he looks down at the oil with vague amusement. Not the cleanest sentiment.

He dips his fingers into the stoup, all ten, and they come away inky black. They flick dry easily enough, but the stain remains. Wiping his hands on his pants, he moves to enter the church with his head held high, ears less round than his reflection might have portrayed to his eyes. The congregation turns to look at him, gazes blank but damning all at once.

Ahead, he’s waiting. Dirk takes long strides, to cut their distance down fast, but the aisle stretches like a cinematic hallway until he shrugs off his backpack, digs his claws into the front of his T-shirt. He kicks out of his shoes, puts his hand on a pew to support his weight through peeling off his socks. By the time he kicks his underwear from his heel, Dirk is sprinting towards Father Ampora.

Crashing into his chest feels like home, feels like faith itself, his face buried in cassock and his cheeks wet with liberation. Hellfire hands take his throat, guide him to the altar proper in front of the congregation, body wide and open and bare in the eyes of God, the eyes of his sire.

“What do I do?” he asks, shoulders rolling to facilitate the unfurl of wings. Behind him, the priest looms, impossible cock pressing with impossible weight to the base of his spine. Dirk chokes on his arousal, hands clasping together in some mockery of forgiveness. The voice is truth. The voice is forgiveness. The voice is ease, peace, welcoming him to a home he’s never known he missed.

Talons bite into the meat of his thighs. Teeth lock on his nape. A murmur that is ten whispers at once in various pitch rumbles from his toes to the tips of his ears.

** _“Pray.”_ **

* * *

His chest is tender. The great palms caressing his nipples to stiff peaks only seem to worsen the weight, full pecs that are burning with a desire to _ let down _ against every prideful line in his body. But Dirk still arches into the stimulation, his arms cast up with fingers interlaced behind his sire’s impossibly huge neck. His spine quivers, strung tight as a bow, just begging to snap under the right pressure and loose the winding foreplay-aided orgasm he’s been edging towards for what feels like years.

“Is this necessary?”

A pinch to the right nipple. Dirk keens, thighs shifting restlessly, length hot and flushed to the tip. He beads with pre. Mere seconds later, his chest beads with something even more pearly. Under his sire’s touch, he cries out when the first dribble of milk streaks down his chest to pool in his lap with the bitter honey of his cock.

“Very,” purred into his ear, somehow slicking down his throat like a wet tongue. He swallows. He groans. His other breast is leaking now. “You are Absolution, boy. Patience, distilled. With this, all of man will fall prey to your nurturing hand. Take pity on the mortals that will vy for your enticement.”

Then the hands, huge and all-encompassing, lift Dirk up until his ass is pressed to the cock that made him this way, made him _real_. His dick leaks pitifully in time with his tits. “Now smile. It’s time you meet your brothers.”

**Author's Note:**

> _**PROMPT 3**_  
i am leaving this one very open-ended, in case you happen to enjoy this kink and want to go ham with it!  
in short, i'd like one of the six characters i listed to go through a gradual and involuntary series of bodily changes. it can go in a body horror/noncon direction or a sexy/consensual one, it can involve other characters i didn't list or it can just be that person by themselves! i'd like the timeframe to be somewhere from a week minimum to 4-6 months max, if that's alright? i.e. fast enough they can see and notice the changes happening, but not so fast it's instantaneous!
> 
> if you'd like some suggestions on the kinds of transformations i like, here are some:  
\- xeno/eldritch stuff (grimdark, anyone?)  
\- gender transformations (particularly exaggerated ones (such as ""bimbo"" or ""stud"" stuff); as a Trans this is definitely a shameful-favorite kink of mine)  
\- animal transformations (either partway or all the way! canids would def. be my favorite for this)  
\- breast/butt/curves/genital growth
> 
> bonus points if it's connected to them getting off– like, the more they get off, the more it happens, and the more it happens, the more they get off on it! extra bonus points if they're upset about this, but can't stop themselves from doing it anyway
> 
> _**PROMPT 4**_  
gibe me some christianity kink baBEY  
for this one, i'd want dirk paired with any of the other individuals! (but probably not more than one of them unless you really wanna get down and dirty with it)  
my original idea for this was 'dirk is a priest and the other person is coming in to confess their sins (and getting fucked deep over the altar)' but i'm also very into the idea of priest!signless getting seduced by the too-smart punk kid who sidles into the confessional booth one lazy afternoon. would love some dubcon, but probably not further than that? i'd LOVE it if the sex was framed in the not-dirk person's mind as somehow being holy/repentance. seriously just slap as much christian imagery and symbolism in there as you physically can and ill love it.  
bonus points for the not-dirk person coming in their pants without being touched, and additional bonus points for dirk quoting the bible at some point during sex!  
(Bonus Points Supreme would be having dirk be lactating (whether cis or trans, i don't mind!) and having him feed them of his body like the Virgin Mary something something religious imagery.)


End file.
